


A Far Greater Sin (OC version)

by Yavannie



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Blindfolds, F/M, First Kiss, Flimsy Grasp On Lore, Fluff and Smut, Getting Creative With Canon, Healing, Minor Original Character(s), Rule-Bending, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Soft Din Djarin, Spoilers, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Worldbuilding, nursed back to health, vaguely canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: Or, five times the Mandalorian kept his helmet on, and one time he had to bend the rules.--"What's your name?" she asks. "I'm Sam, and that's Ma Eyla taking care of your friend," she adds."I'm Mandalorian," he says."That's a strange name.""It's not a name," the boy says, sounding impatient.Sam wraps her arms around her legs and goes back to silently scrutinizing every square inch of the strange boy. He may not be a child, exactly, but he can't be that much older than her. Thirteen or fourteen at the most. If she could hear his voice properly then maybe she could guess better."Aren't you going to take that off?" she asks, looking at his helmet."No," he replies."Why?""This is the way."ETA: There is now a Din/Reader version of this story, and you can find ithere.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 101
Collections: Melo Mapo’s Favorite Mandalorian Pairings





	A Far Greater Sin (OC version)

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly self-indulgent, written for me, myself and I because *waves indistinctly* Din Djarin. Has not been technical-betaed, but many, many thanks to a certain Raptorlily for putting up with my flailing, for your thoughts and for supplying me with GIF content in times of need (which is all the time). I'm yavannie on tumblr and I've spent too many hours on Wookieepedia when I could have been watching The Clone Wars ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.

The first time Sam meets a Mandalorian, she’s still a child, no more than ten years old. She’s been an apprentice with Ma Eyla for little more than a year.

Two of them arrive, on a battered ship, landing at dawn in the clearing near the huts. A man, stumbling across the uneven ground as though blind, and a youngling in armor that looks pieced together from scraps, supporting his companion even though he’s limping badly himself. They both wear helmets with narrow, evil-looking slits to see through. Sam isn’t fazed. A year ago she might have been, but since then she has seen much and more. Ma Eyla doesn’t discriminate; she treats anyone who seeks her help and is willing to pay their due.

Alerted by the noise, Ma Eyla herself steps out of the med hut, and immediately starts rolling up her sleeves.

“Ready two beds, Sam,” she says, and hurries over to help the pair. 

Sam knows better than to dawdle. She runs into the med hut and starts tearing the covers off two cots, but before she can even start preparing the table, Ma Eyla slams the door open, dragging the grown man along.

“See to the boy,” she snaps as she helps the man up on a bed. “And don’t come in here. Under _any_ circumstances.”

Sam nods mutely and starts backing out of the room. The last thing she sees before she stumbles backwards over the threshold is Ma Eyla tying a piece of cloth over her eyes - the blindfold that is usually reserved for when she’s treating Royalty.

The boy is sitting on the ground outside, leaning against the wall, clearly exhausted.

“Where are you hurt?” Sam asks, kneeling by his side.

The boy turns his head, helmet still in place, to look at her. At least she thinks he’s looking. He says nothing, so Sam lets her gaze sweep over him. It’s pretty obvious – his left leg is covered in blood. _And he did limp_ , she thinks to herself.

“Here?” she asks, reaching for him.

“You’re just a child,” he says, his voice tinny and strange from underneath the helmet. He pulls his leg away with a wince.

“I am not,” says Sam indignantly. “And if I am, then so are you.”

He doesn’t answer that, so Sam shuffles closer and folds up his pant leg. There’s a deep gash there – a slash or bite of some kind – and it’s still bleeding. 

“It’s not too bad,” says Sam. “I’m just going to stop the bleeding and then Ma Eyla will fix you right up when she’s done with your friend. Alright?”

Somehow the helmet manages to look dubious.

“Alright,” he says at length.

She ties the wound tight, fetches an empty box from the store room to prop his leg up, and then offers him tea, as is customary. The boy tips his head down, as if in disbelief.

"No thanks," he says.

Sam drinks her own tea and eyes him curiously.

"What's your name?" she asks. "I'm Sam, and that's Ma Eyla taking care of your friend," she adds.

"I'm Mandalorian," he says.

"That's a strange name."

"It's not a name," the boy says, sounding impatient.

“Are you a Royal?” she asks.

The boy snorts at that. “No,” he says.

Clearly he is not in a talking mood, so Sam wraps her arms around her legs and goes back to silently scrutinizing every square inch of the strange boy. He may not be a child, exactly, but he can't be that much older than her. Thirteen or fourteen at the most. If she could hear his voice properly then maybe she could guess better.

"Aren't you going to take that off?" she asks, looking at his helmet.

"No," he replies.

"Why?" 

"This is the way."

Sam nods. Something about the way he says it makes it clear that this is not up for debate.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the moons of Rion slowly rise and set in the pale morning sky. Then the peace is interrupted by a distinct growling from the boy's stomach.

"Are you hungry?" Sam asks.

"It's fine," he replies.

Sam thinks for a minute about how to solve this conundrum. "You can eat in my hut," she says finally, getting to her feet and offering him her hand. "There's some breakfast left. I'll leave you alone, I promise. I suppose you do need to take that off to eat?"

"Yes," he admits. "But…"

He keeps up the lame protests as she pulls him up and helps him inside the apprentice’s hut. Then she rummages around for the leftovers. 

“It’s not much,” she says apologetically, looking at the meagre spread on her bedside table once she’s collected what she can. “I’ll cook later, for you and your master.”

“Thank you,” he says, and then she leaves him in peace.

* * *

By the time Ma Eyla has finished treating the boy, the sun has begun to set over the clearing. As is customary, the patients are offered food and beds for the night.

“What are they?” Sam asks Ma Eyla as they make up the cots in the med hut with fresh sheets.

“They’re Mandalorians,” says Ma. “Fierce warriors, very dangerous. But they have some honor, and they always pay their due. You have nothing to fear from them.”

Later that night, Sam lies awake, unable to sleep. Outside her hut, she can hear the voices of the man and the boy, sitting by the fire. Silently, she slides out of bed, pads over to the door and cracks it open, just a sliver. They both still have their helmets on, even though it’s just the two of them. 

“Is she really her daughter?” she hears the boy say, and Sam feels a nervous thrill knowing they’re talking about her. 

“Unlikely,” the man grunts. 

“They don’t look alike, but she calls her Ma…”

“That’s just what they call their healers,” says the man. “Maybe it’s part of their religion, I don’t know. I’ve heard Ma Eyla talk about some moon mother or other.”

Sam has to suppress a giggle at that. Clearly he knows nothing about them.

“Why did we come here anyway?” complains the boy. “It’s all so primitive. These huts, these weird plants and salves… A cauterizer would have fixed me up ten times faster.”

“That leg of yours will heal cleaner than anything helped by laser, boy,” the man says gruffly. “Besides that, the healers of Rion are some of the very few people who work blindfolded on a regular basis. There’s Royalty here that demands it. Out of those few, Ma Eyla is the best. You’ll do well to remember this place, foundling. The healers take an oath to help anyone in need, so long as they pay their due. They pass no judgement, and even though they serve mainly the peoples of Rion, they are familiar with our ways. So remember it. Especially if you ever screw up like I did and end up getting blindworms from a kriffin’ clawbird.”

“Are they gone?” asks the boy.

“The worms? Aye, she got rid of them.”

They fall quiet, and for a while the only thing Sam can hear is the crackling of the fire.

“Did you…” the boy starts. “Did you remove it?”

Another silence.

“Aye.”

The boy scrambles to his feet. “But it’s forbidden!”

“She never saw my face.”

“But we must never… Not in front of another. This is the way!”

“It depends, foundling.”

“On what?”

“On whether you care to live!” says the man sharply. 

“I’d rather die,” the boy mutters, sitting down by the fire again, now a little further from the man. “This is the way.”

It’s a long while before Sam finally falls asleep that night, the strange boy occupying her thoughts until the sky outside her window starts turning grey.

When Ma Eyla shakes her awake the next morning, the boy and his companion have already left.

* * *

The second time Sam meets the Mandalorian, she’s a young woman of nineteen, and already known to the people of Rion as Ma Sam. She lives a good life, enjoying steady work as the healer and midwife of three growing villages. In addition, the Royals keep her well provided as she regularly tends to their youngest – a sickly infant with ear problems and a perpetual cough. An oath is an oath, though, and she still offers aid to anyone who asks and who can pay their due.

Even a Mandalorian.

He arrives in the mid-morning, on foot, his ship presumably hidden somewhere in the forest. Since her first encounter with the man and the boy, she’s met a handful of them, a couple more than once, but this one – a young man by the look of him – she’s sure she has never seen him before.

“Greetings,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron and getting to her feet.

He stops a little way away, tilting his helmet slightly in a questioning way.

“Sam?” he says at length.

Sam feels a shiver along her spine. “Yes,” she says slowly. “Have we met before?”

“We have."

Her eyes flit over his armor. She doesn’t recognize it, but there’s _something_ about him… And then it strikes her.

"You're the boy!" she says, her face cracking into a smile. "Aren't you? From all those years ago."

He stands motionless, his helmet betraying nothing.

"Yes," he says cooly. "Where is Ma Eyla?”

“Passed since four years,” says Sam. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says the Mandalorian.

“It was her time.”

“Well,” says the Mandalorian, looking down at his gloved hands with a sigh. "Thank you anyway."

He turns around to leave.

"Wait," Sam calls after him. He stops, but doesn't turn around. "You must have come a long way, Mandalorian. What was your business with Ma Eyla?"

"I'm in need of a skilled healer," he says, turning his head a fraction of an inch.

Sam rolls her eyes inwardly. "Then you've come to the right place," she says evenly. "I'm Ma Sam now, and you'll find no better healer on all of Rion."

* * *

It’s his hands. Beneath the gloves, they’re crusted with blood, his palms and fingers shredded with fresh wounds.

“What happened?” Sam says, turning his right hand this way and that underneath her worklight.

“I had to make a quick exit from the fifth floor of a prison,” he says. “Grabbed hold of whatever I could on the way down.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Was it a barbed wire, by any chance?”

“...Yes.” Even through the modulator, he sounds embarrassed. “Ruined my best pair of gloves, too. I tried using the cauterizer–” he motions at his thumb, where a lump of scarring speaks volumes, “–but I’m not very good with my left hand. Besides, I think they’re going...numb.”

It takes her the best part of the day to meticulously clean and trim his wounds, to fuse together muscle and nerve that has been severed, and to finally work salve into the gashes.

“By morning they will be considerably better,” says Sam as she ties the final knot to his bandages. “I’ll redress them then, and you can be on your way.”

“Thank you,” says the Mandalorian, a depth of sincerity to his voice. “What do I owe you?”

“What do you think it’s worth?” she asks, sitting up and arching her aching back. 

The Mandalorian seems distracted for a moment. “Your help has been invaluable,” he says then, turning his bandaged hands this way and that. “Name your price.”

“That’s up to you to decide,” she says. “I’m bound by oath to accept whatever you offer.”

He turns away in frustration, then lowers his voice. “Help me out here. What do people usually pay?”

Sam smiles, then thinks for a few seconds. “Money is of little use to me right now. Do you have anything else? Some precious metal, perhaps? Rare plants or herbs from other worlds?”

“Sadly not,” says the Mandalorian earnestly. “I’ll keep it in mind if I ever need your help again.”

In the end she accepts a generous stack of credits that will no doubt gather dust in a drawer, before preparing him a meal and leaving him in peace to eat.

* * *

The next day, she unwraps his hands in the light of the morning sun. They are handsome hands; strong and tan, much like her own, despite presumably not seeing a whole lot of sunlight. The wounds are healing well, the salve doing the Mother’s work. She redresses the scars again and gives him a small jar of ointment.

“Rub into the skin, twice daily until you run out, like so,” she says, letting her fingers run circles across his palms. “Cover the scarring until it’s fully healed if possible.”

The Mandalorian flexes his fingers, nodding slowly. Then he turns his visor towards her. “Thank you, Sam.”

She watches him as he leaves, curious of who is really under that helmet.

* * *

The third time she meets the Mandalorian, years later, it's in the unlikeliest of places. A group of Royals have undertaken a journey to the distant world of Cantonica; a desert planet that seems to run entirely on seedy business deals and games of hazard. The sprawling city of Canto Bight is the heart of the planet, but while its veins are glamorous gambling halls, its lifeblood is corrupted cash. To this hellhole, the Royals have decided to bring their sickly son. Sam has been promised a dizzying amount of money to accompany them in case he falls ill, but she’s starting to regret her decision. 

It’s all surface, she thinks as she watches the city from high up on the walkway balcony that encircles their hotel. The lights twinkle and gleam, and she can hear the distant noise from the casino downstairs. One of the Royals, a younger brother to the queen as she understands it, is deep in debt. His brilliant solution? To _gamble_ it back. Sam sighs and lifts her gaze until it meets the ocean on the distant horizon. It glitters seductively, reflecting the light of thousands of stars sprinkled across the night sky. Like everything else in this city, the ocean is - of course - fake.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?,” someone says behind her.

Somewhere deep inside, she knows even before she turns around. The voice is metallic and distorted, and could belong to any number of helmet-clad individuals. But somehow she _knows_. 

Sam turns around. She’s right.

“Mandalorian,” she says, unable to conceal the honest shock in her voice.

“Sam,” he says, inclining his head slightly. 

His armor is a little different from last time. Some pieces have been replaced, and there’s a menacing looking weapon slung across his back. And yet it is unmistakably him. For a minute, all she can do is stare in muted surprise.

“What are you doing here?” she says, finally finding her voice again.

“Business – what else?” he says, sounding almost amused. “This cesspool provides plenty of low-hanging fruit for a bounty hunter.”

“Bounty hunter,” Sam says, tasting the words. “I suppose it’s a vocation that’s always in demand.”

The Mandalorian snorts. “What about you?” he asks then. “Have you given up your oath?”

She can’t be sure, of course, but she imagines she can feel his gaze lingering on her bare shoulders. Suddenly she feels self-conscious. At home, she wears practical garb, made for practical work. Here, she’s been lent a gown of sorts, _to blend in_ , as the Royal servant who dumped it in her lap so delicately put it. It hangs from her neck, sleek and smooth, its fabric catching against her fingertips whenever she touches it. 

“No,” she says, resisting the urge to cross her arms and hide her shapes. “I’m here tending to a young Royal. He’s sickly, and they won’t let him travel without a healer.”

“A Royal,” the Mandalorian repeats, a steely note in his voice. “Not a duke, by any chance?”

"No," says Sam with a frown. "He's a prince."

"A child, then?"

“Yes, a boy of ten.”

His shoulders sink as if relief, then he steps up to the balustrade and leans forward to rest his arms on it. For a while they stay there in companionable silence.

"You should go back to Rion," says the Mandalorian suddenly.

"I wish I could," says Sam with a little laugh.

"You can," he says. "I'll take you. Gather up your things and meet me at the landing pad in half an hour."

"What?" Sam asks, frowning. “I didn’t mean–” 

"Trust me." Even through the modulator, she can hear the urgency in his voice.

"I don't trust you," she says, a chill of discomfort making the hairs on her arms stand on end despite the balmy desert evening. She takes a step back. "Why are you–”

But before she can finish the sentence, the sharp sound of plasma shots being fired whistles through the air, and she’s knocked to the ground by something heavy – the Mandalorian, she realizes where she’s lying face down on the smooth stone floor, trying to catch her breath. Around her, people are running and screaming and she curls into a ball to avoid getting trampled. In the distance, she can see the shooter – a hooded figure with two blaster guns who’s currently lowering both weapons to aim right for Sam and the Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian gets to his feet far quicker than his armor should allow, smoothly dodging the rounds pinging off the marble pillars around them. He slings his polearm rifle over his shoulder and takes aim. It only takes one shot.

The silence that follows is deafening. The walkway which had been bustling just seconds ago is now completely empty. From far away, music, chatter and raucous laughter from the streets below slowly filter through to Sam's ears.

"Let's go get your things," says the Mandalorian, reaching down for her.

She grabs his arm and he gets her to her feet with ease, then starts pulling her towards the nearest doorway. 

“Hang on a second,” she says, shaking herself loose. “I’m not just leaving this job unfinished. And certainly not with someone who’s…” she shakes her head, trying to get her bearings. “Someone who’s getting shot at,” she finishes firmly.

He tilts his helmet. “They weren’t shooting at me,” he says.

Sam frowns, opening her mouth, but finds herself lost for words. Then the Mandalorian whips his head around, seemingly staring at the wall.

“Guards,” he grunts. “Hold on tight."

And with that he loops his left arm around her, pulling her firmly against his cold, hard armor. Then he lifts his free arm and fires off a wire that sails upwards with a high pitched whirring until it catches on a ledge many floors above them.

"Wh–" Sam begins, before the air is knocked out of her once more.

All things considered, it's just as well that her lungs are empty, because she’s never been more ready to scream in her life. Instead, she gulps uselessly as they soar upwards. Despite the Mandalorian’s vise-like grip on her, Sam feels herself slipping, sliding, and she grapples for purchase, her fingers finding nothing but smooth metal. Just when she’s sure she’s going to fall to her death, they swing inwards and tumble onto a balcony.

“You okay?” says the Mandalorian.

“No,” Sam gasps as she struggles into a sitting position. The world feels lopsided and her ears are ringing.

“Stay there,” he says, as if she’s really got a choice in the matter.

He unholsters a smaller blaster and makes quick work of the lock on the balcony door, then slips inside. Sam closes her eyes, wills her breathing to slow and her head to stop spinning. She’s just about managed to work out up from down and left from right and stand up again when the Mandalorian returns.

“It’s safe, let’s go.”

She follows him closely through a dark, unoccupied hotel suite, then through the door to the hallway beyond. It looks identical to the one that houses the Royals and their entourage. 

“Where are you staying?” asks the Mandalorian.

“Fifty-third floor.”

“Elevator,” he says, nodding to an alcove a short distance away.

“What is going on here?” Sam asks as they wait for the elevator to arrive. “If he wasn’t shooting at you, then…” She trails off. 

“Your friend, the duke,” says the Mandalorian. “He owes people money. The wrong people. And now those people are trying to get at him. That guy down there was no guild member, and I’ll bet you anything he didn’t come alone. You should get out of here.”

There’s a soft _ding_ , and the elevator doors slide open. Thankfully it’s empty, and Sam makes a point of standing as far away from him as possible.

“Why would they care about me?” she asks as the elevator sails smoothly upwards. “I’m nobody.”

“Correct,” says the Mandalorian, and against all reason, Sam feels a twinge of irritation that he agrees. “But unlike the Royals themselves, you’re an easy target,” he goes on. “The blasters were set to stun. Likely he was going to use you as bait." 

"Bait," she repeats, glaring at him.

"Or perhaps make you show him the way," he says, the smallest hint of amusement in his voice.

As the elevator bell sounds again, Sam’s eyes go wide as she realizes what she's just done. 

"No," she says as the words _bounty hunter_ echo in her mind. “No, no, no.”

She hurries over to the control panel and starts pushing buttons at random, trying to get the elevator moving again, but the Mandalorian simply wedges his foot against the sliding door and takes her arm in a firm grip.

“Listen, Sam,” he says, talking quietly and quickly. “I’m your best shot. Yes, the duke is my mission too, but I’ll do my best to bring him in _alive_. I know who else is after him, and trust me, they’ll make no such promises.”

She stares at his visor, trying to somehow penetrate that black slit with her gaze. Then she yanks her arm free and steps out of the elevator.

“The Royal quarters are over there,” she says, nodding towards where the luxury suites are located. “I’m going to my room.”

With that, she turns on her heel and starts walking.

“Landing pad, twenty minutes,” he calls after her.

She pretends not to hear him.

When Sam enters her room, Noonie – one of the many Royal maids, and presumably the most inconsequential one since she’s been housed with Sam – is sitting on her bed with a book in her hands. She ignores Sam pointedly. During their week-long stay on Cantonica, Noonie has only ever talked to Sam when she’s had to, or when she’s been especially bored.

“You should pack up your things,” Sam says.

"Why?" says Noonie lazily, turning the page without looking up.

Sam shrugs. "A hunch?" she says.

Noonie simply raises an eyebrow and reads on. 

_Twenty minutes_ , Sam thinks, and starts throwing her belongings into her bag. When she’s done, she sits on the bed and waits.

It starts mere minutes after, with a distant shout. Noonie looks up, throwing Sam a glance somewhere between worried and annoyed, as if this is somehow Sam’s fault. Then there’s shots, and more screaming, and finally some kind of explosion in the distance that makes the floor shake and the windows rattle.

“What was that?” asks Noonie, her voice shaky and small.

“Someone blew something up,” says Sam, and prays to the Mother that the Mandalorian wasn’t involved – on either end.

She hurries over to the door, listens for a while and then sticks her head out into the corridor. The Royal quarters further down the hall are dust-filled and she can see armed, hemlet-clad men running into smoke that’s billowing out from a room. She can’t tell if they’re guards or something much, much worse. There’s something nudging at her arm, and she looks down to find Noonie peeping out under her elbow, hunched down and shaking.

“This is my night off and I’m not going out there,” she says, and then quickly retreats into the room again.

“Me neither,” Sam mumbles to herself. 

She closes the door and locks it carefully, then turns off the lights. And then she waits.

The minutes drag on as they listen in tense silence to the noise outside, Sam waiting by the door and Noonie hiding behind her bed. _Twenty minutes_. Surely they’ve passed by now. At last the clamor dies down, and Sam dares another peek out into the corridor. It’s empty.

“I think we should go,” she says over her shoulder.

“Are you insane?” Noonie hisses. “I’m staying here!”

“Fine,” says Sam, grabbing her own bag. 

“Where are you going?” Noonie whines, her voice bordering on hysterical.

“To find someone who knows what’s going on.”

The lights in the corridor are pulsating in red and blue, like some kind of silent alarm. She jogs down the corridor to where the prince’s room is. The door is open, and a quick glance inside confirms it’s empty. She hugs her bag tightly, considering her options. One thing is clear; she can’t stay here.

By some miracle, the elevator seems to still be functioning, and she presses the button for the hotel lobby with a trembling hand. Some twenty floors down, the elevator stops to let a couple of Caskadags on. One of them eyes Sam curiously, his gaze lingering on her soiled dress, and she regrets not taking the opportunity to get changed. Before the doors close again, Sam notes that this floor seems perfectly normal – no blinking lights, no dust-covered carpets.

Arriving at the lobby, Sam expects at least _some_ kind of commotion, some sign that there’s been an explosion, probably a kidnapping and possibly _murders_ higher up in the building. But people are mingling and chatting here, drifting leisurely in and out of the gambling hall. Then she sees them; a troop of fifteen or more guards, jogging towards the elevator, blasters at the ready. Sam braces herself, keeps her eyes on the ground and makes her way towards the exit as calmly as possible. She passes through the gleaming doors and just as she thinks she’s made it, a guard posted outside the hotel does a double take.

“Hey,” he says. “Aren’t you with–”

Sam doesn’t wait around to hear the rest. She hikes up her dress and runs without looking back.

She runs on instinct, hoping her sense of direction and vague memory of the city layout will lead her right. Whenever she can, she turns onto the smaller streats, weaving her way through downtown Canto Bight. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the landing pad, her sides aching and a taste of metal in her mouth. She can’t be sure, but it seems like she’s managed to shake off anyone following her. Leaning against a wall, she looks around at the spaceships, some parked, some landing, some taking off. It strikes her that she has no idea what the Mandalorian’s ship looks like. In any case, he gave her twenty minutes and she’s easily taken double that to make her way here.

Then, joy of joys, she spots the Royal cruiser, pulling out from a covered port, revving its engines.

“Hey!” she shouts, running towards it and waving her arms. “I’m down here!”

She can see the captain through the windshield, can see him watching her. Next to him, in the co-pilot seat, is a Royal, wearing the traditional garb and helm that shields them from prying eyes. Sam looks on in horror as the Royal turns to gaze at her only to gesture dismissively. The captain throws her another glance, then shrugs before hitting the thrusters and rising smoothly from the platform.

“Hey!” she shouts again, even though it’s no use. “You assholes!” she hisses between clenched teeth, throwing her bag down on the ground in frustration.

Seconds later she’s forced to gather it up again and scramble to the side as a ship comes in for landing. It looks like a heap of junk, and not like it belongs to the average Canto Bight patron. Even more surprisingly, it doesn’t land, but hovers nearby and swivels around to lower the cargo hold flap. After a moment, the Mandalorian appears in the opening, waving impatiently at her.

Sam only hesitates for a second before rushing forward, throwing her bag on board and then climbing in after it.

“Come on, come on,” he urges, and she stumbles after him through the cramped ship until they reach the cockpit. 

“Strap yourself in,” says the Mandalorian while he practically jumps into the pilot’s seat.

Sam barely has time to sit down before they soar forward off the landing pad, the ship groaning ominously. She fumbles with her seatbelt and just manages to fasten it before they dive spectacularly down towards the ocean, presumably to gain speed, before turning skyward again. 

“Is anyone following us?” she yells over the roar of the engines.

He doesn’t reply, and Sam soon has enough on her plate trying to keep her dinner down as they jet out of the atmosphere of Cantonica with an immense rumble. In the silence that follows, her stomach keeps roiling.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” she groans.

The Mandalorian whips his head around, the helmet managing to exude panic. “Please don’t,” he says.

Sam closes her eyes and tries to focus on her breathing until that awful feeling in her belly dies down.

“Thank you for waiting,” she says, opening her eyes again.

“What took you so long?” he asks brusquely. “I had to circle the place for half an hour.”

“I didn’t expect you to stick around,” she snaps back. Then she clears her throat, forcing herself to calm down. “But I’m glad you did. My other ride...”

“I saw them,” he says in a short voice. 

Sam folds her arms across her chest. “I won’t be doing business with them again.”

“No you won’t,” says the Mandalorian quietly. Before she can ask what he means, he goes on, “Ready for the jump?”

“She has a functioning hyperdrive?” Sam asks incredulously. 

He raises a warning finger. “Do not disrespect her. Hold on tight, now. Next stop Rion.” 

* * *

The journey to Rion is not overly long, but it will still take the best part of a day. As soon as the Mandalorian has set the course, he disappears into the back of the ship to his sleeping quarters to get some rest, while Sam curls up with a rough blanket in the passenger seat to do the same. 

The turbulent evening haunts her and her mind keeps going in circles as she waits for sleep to take her. She worries about the Royals; if she’ll ever get paid as promised, if the prince is all right, and if the duke escaped. He’s obviously not on board this ship – she would have noticed. She worries fleetingly about Noonie, too. She may have been snooty and unpleasant, but she deserved better. Hopefully she’ll be able to use her servant skills to get a job somewhere in Canto Bight, Sam muses. 

In the end she drifts off without noticing, and the next thing she knows, the Mandalorian is shaking her awake with a gloved yet gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Not long to go now,” he says and hands her a box of rations before he slumps into the pilot’s seat and starts fiddling with the ship’s computer.

Sam eats with one hand while massaging her stiff neck with the other. She must have slept longer than she thought.

“Thank you,” she says when she’s finished. “For this. And the ride. And...the rest. How much do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house,” says the Mandalorian without turning around.

That doesn’t sit well with Sam. “It’s not my custom to accept things – or to give them away for that matter – for free,” she says.

“The Royals usually pay you well, right?”

Sam frowns. “Yes, but–”

“Reckon they’ll pay their due this time around?”

“Probably not,” she admits.

“Right. And in part, that’s because of me. So let’s just call it even, shall we?”

She’s not thrilled with this solution; she doesn’t like trading favors, especially when the tally starts getting high. However, she’s already made her mind up to break it off clean with the Royals after they decided to leave her stranded on Cantonica without a second thought. That in turn will mean a long term loss of income, and even if she’s got some cash saved up, she’ll need to be more careful in the future. 

“Fine,” she says at length. “Just don’t go bringing it up the next time you need me to sew your fingers back on, alright?”

“No, Ma,” he says dryly.

* * *

He drops her off at the beach not far from her settlement, and Sam sighs in relief as her slippers sink into the warm sand. She doesn’t even mind the way it trickles between the straps to grate against her toes; she’s just glad to be home. She turns back to look at the Mandalorian who’s standing in the cargo hold.

“Want to restock anything while you’re here?” she yells over the engine noise. “Food, water, med supplies…”

“I’m already late for a business meeting,” he calls back. 

Sam shrugs. “Goodbye then. And thanks again!”

He raises his hand in a greeting before closing the flap and taking off again.

* * *

It’s another few days before she learns the fate of the Royals. A tradeswoman from one of the nearby villages brings the news along with her monthly bundle of dried sunblood.

“Didn’t rightly know if I’d find you here, Ma,” she says as Sam counts out the payment for the herbs. “None of the others ever came back, you see.”

“I took a...different ship,” says Sam delicately.

“And the rest of ‘em left the other day, took right off as soon as they found out that the duke had been captured. Rumor has it he wasn’t the only one with a gambling problem…”

“Captured, you say?” says Sam, pausing with the credits still in her hand. “Not killed then?”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” says the tradeswoman, eyeing the cash eagerly. 

Sam carefully adds another couple of credits to the stack, pushes it towards the woman, and raises an eyebrow. “What else have you heard?”

The tradeswoman sweeps the money up and tucks it inside a hidden pocket. “That the duke was captured on Cantonica by a Mandalorian bounty hunter,” she says in a low voice.

“Oh, really,” says Sam flatly, already regretting spending the extra credit.

“Froze him in carbonite and delivered him to the Hutts,” the tradeswoman says sagely. Then she gestures at the sunblood and asks, “Same again next month?”

But Sam isn’t listening, momentarily lost in thought. _Carbonite_. If what the woman says is true, the Duke had been on board the ship with them the whole time. And Sam had practically led the Mandalorian right to him after all… She can’t help but snort at the very _cheek_.

“Well?”

“Hm? Oh, yes,” says Sam. Then she pauses, her hand moving to her purse. It already feels considerably lighter. She smiles politely. “Actually, I’ll let you know.”

* * *

The next time she meets the Mandalorian is only a few weeks later. 

She wakes in the middle of the night from the sound of a ship making a rough landing nearby, and she barely has time to get dressed before there’s a heavy knock on her door. When she opens it, the Mandalorian practically falls inside, landing in a heap on the floor. He says nothing, simply lies there breathing hard. Not that Sam needs him to tell her what’s wrong – it’s abundantly clear from his cape and backplate, both torn to shreds and exposing the inexpertly dressed, deep gashes across his back.

“What’s happened?” she asks, reaching down to help pull him to his feet again. _Stars_ , _he’s heavy_.

“Nexu,” he manages, then stumbles towards Sam’s bed.

“No, no, not in _here_!” says Sam, but he’s already fallen on top of it, belly down, and is now seemingly unconscious.

“Damn it,” Sam hisses before hurrying out to the med hut to fetch her portable kit.

Sam has heard of Nexu cats and the damage they can do to their prey, and as she drags a light over to her bed, she fears the worst. On closer inspection, the wounds themselves aren’t too bad – the lack of treatment is the real problem. She removes the soggy bandages carefully, scrunching her nose up at the faint smell of festering flesh. He must have gone days like this. What’s worse, he’s burning up with fever.

“Did this yourself, did you?” she mutters as she picks off the last strip of cloth.

He’s certainly out cold, because he doesn’t even flinch when she proceeds to pour smolderwine on the wounds to burn off whatever’s growing there. Before she does anything else, she gives him an antibiotic shot – an expensive but in this case necessary luxury – then settles down for a night of needlework.

Hours later, when she’s finally done, she considers his armor. By necessity, she’s cut away the back of his shirt, and while she can’t see any signs of wounds elsewhere on his body, he could clearly do with a good wash - not to mention the importance of getting that temperature down. Carefully, she tries to pry off his shoulderpad, and out of nowhere, he shoots his arm back to grab her wrist.

“No,” he mumbles.

“Mother, you scared me,” Sam whispers, her heart pounding hard. Then she raises her voice. “You’re boiling in that armor, Mandalorian. It needs to come off.”

“I said no.”

“I swear, I won’t touch the helmet.”

He grunts at that, and the grip on her wrist slips, his hand falling forward again. She takes that as a yes. 

It’s heavy work, but she manages to strip him down to his underwear, then rinses the sweat and dirt off his arms and legs with warm, soapy water, all the while lamenting the mess it’s making of her sheets. She leaves his chest, unwilling to move him with the wounds only just stitched together. 

As she dries him, she tries not to think too hard about what she’s looking at, but there’s no denying that his body is easy on the eyes. His arms and legs are strong in a way that she suspects relies on combat training that’s put into practice on a regular basis. That and wearing the armor all day long. She does as she’s promised and leaves his helmet alone, but when she dries his neck, she catches a glimpse of his hair; ordinary, brown hair that curls slightly at the edges. She tears her eyes away and goes to fetch a clean blanket, but the fleeting image is already etched into her mind.

It’s already midday when Sam finally slumps down on a mattress on the floor. It’s been a tense few hours, but the antibiotics are clearly working; his fever has broken and his breathing seems lighter, and she allows herself the deep, dark sleep of exhaustion.

* * *

When she wakes up, he’s sitting up on the bed, laboriously bent over to fasten his leg armor.

“What are you doing?” she says, scrambling up off the floor. “You’ll rip the stitches, you fool!”

“I need to get going,” he grunts before standing up with considerable effort.

“Hey, just last night you were _dying_ ,” Sam says and grabs hold of his shoulders to force him to sit down again.

“Clearly whatever you did worked wonders.”

He reaches for the blanket on the bed with a wince and wraps himself in it.

“Do you feel cold?” Sam asks, worried. She puts her hand on his neck, but it feels cool enough.

“No,” he says, stumbling to his feet again. “I need a new shirt. From the ship. And your payment. How much do I owe you?”

Sam shakes her head. “You can’t travel like this.”

“I can and I will,” he says stubbornly. “Someone out there is _very_ interested in getting hold of me. Eventually they will. But I’m not going to let them find me here.”

“At least let me redress the wounds,” she says, turning around after him as he limps through the door. “It’d be a crying shame if you died from a ripped stitch after all of this, don’t you think?”

He stops in the doorway. A moment later he sighs. “Alright.”

“In the med hut this time, please,” she adds testily.

He keeps himself wrapped in the blanket the whole time Sam prepares new bandages and salve, and as she works she reminds herself that being partially undressed probably bothers him, more so than usual with patients. In her years as a healer, she’s seen it all and more, but to someone not used to being seen…

When he shrugs out of the blanket and lies belly down on the bed, she keeps her head respectfully turned aside, pretending like she hasn’t already seen him stripped to his underwear. Then, of course, she _has_ to look. After all it’s just a back; all humans have them, she muses as she unwraps the bandages. 

It just so happens that this one is an especially fine example.

She shakes that thought from her head and gets to work

“How much?” he asks when she’s done.

“What do you think it’s worth?” she replies automatically. 

“Would you prefer cash, or something else? I have some bachani seeds…”

The seeds sound enticing, but they’d take years to cultivate. “Cash is fine,” she says.

In the end, he gives her both.

* * *

The years pass, and Sam scrapes by. News of strange tidings elsewhere in the galaxy reach her now and then, the Empire’s End sending shockwaves reaching far into the Outer Rim territories. With the Royal castle long abandoned and looted, she relies on the steady trickle of work coming in from the nearby villages and the odd outlander traveler. She delivers babies, treats colds, drains viper bites and sets bones straight. More often than not, she’s paid in grain or meat. More often than not, the payments are small, but an oath is an oath, even though her savings are dwindling.

Late one summer, one of the villages sends a small delegation to her settlement. They bring a child of eight or nine with them. She’s called Cricket, and as of a week back, she’s an orphan.

“The sea took him, Ma,” says one of the villagers. “The father, that is. And the mother’s long gone. She can cook, Ma. And she’s good with plants. Knows the names, knows where they grow.”

Sam looks the child up and down. She’s a bit on the thin side, but she raises her chin stoically, doing her best to hold up to the scrutiny. Sam hasn’t really thought about an apprentice yet – she’s still young, after all. But fate is as always its own mistress.

“Why Cricket?” she asks.

“She was small as a baby, Ma,” says a woman. “And she kept her mother up at night.”

“You don’t look smaller than normal,” Sam says to the child.

“Well, I grew, Ma,” says Cricket.

“She can stay,” Sam decides.

* * *

When she meets the Mandalorian again, it’s been so long that she’s given up any hope of ever seeing him again. She hasn’t presumed him dead, exactly, and she thinks about him from time to time; when she combs the beach for washed up seaweed, or when she happens to spot the ruined dress from Canto Bight, hanging at the very back of her sparse wardrobe. She’s thought to make something useful out of the silk, but whenever she makes her mind up about it, something always seems to stay her hand.

And then one night, with Cricket already asleep in the apprentice’s hut and the fire nearly faded, he arrives. On foot, and with a strange, egg-shaped pod trailing behind him. When Sam spots him, her heart soars. It takes her by surprise, how happy she is to see him, and to find him seemingly healthy and not half-dying.

“Mandalorian,” she greets him, trying her best to curb the bubbling feeling of excitement – she doesn’t want to come across as a giddy girl.

“Sam,” he says, and her heart swells when she imagines she can hear him smile under that helmet.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” she says, her eyes flitting over his armor.

She vaguely knows of the legendary beskar steel of the Mandalorians, and it looks like he’s covered from head to toe in it.

“I’m getting by,” he says modestly. “How are things here on Rion? Are you keeping well?”

Sam suddenly feels self-conscious. The robes she’s wearing happens to be some of her oldest, patched several times over, and she smoothly moves her arm to cover a fraying hem. 

“Same as you,” she says with a lopsided smile. “Getting by. But enough pleasantries now. Sit, and tell me why you’re here.”

“I’ll get right to the point,” says the Mandalorian, joining her by the glowing embers. “I need your help.”

“What’s wrong? You don’t look ill, or injured.”

“I’m not. But there’s something that I need to do in a nearby system. And while I’m gone, I need someone to keep him safe.”

He nods at the pod, hovering nearby. _Him_. The word catches in Sam’s chest. She hadn’t pegged him for a family man. She looks at the floating sphere; its lid is firmly shut.

“Your child?” she asks.

“Not mine,” he says, and Sam exhales slowly. 

He fiddles with something on his wrist, and the pod glides over to them, coming to a halt next to Sam. The Mandalorian pushes a button on the front of it, and it opens. Inside is a strange little creature, green and fuzzy-haired, looking all at once newborn and ancient. It appears to be sleeping.

“What is that?” Sam whispers.

“I’m not sure. But he’s in my care for now, and where I’m going… It’s not safe for him.”

Sam nods slowly. “How long will you be gone?” she asks.

“Shouldn’t be more than a couple days at the most.”

“And if your mission fails?”

“It won’t,” he says.

She studies the child. Something about it makes her uneasy. She can’t put her finger on it, but it’s as if the little creature harbors something – something big and potentially dangerous.

“It’s an unusual request,” she says hesitantly.

“I’ll pay you well, of course.”

That seals the deal, and Sam sighs in defeat. “Fine. I’ve already got one Womp-rat running around, making a mess of things. How much difference can another one make?”

The Mandalorian seems to go stiff for a second. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice strangely formal. “I didn’t know.”

“She’s not mine,” Sam explains. “She lost her parents, so I took her on as an apprentice.”

She’s not sure, but she thinks she can see his shoulders drop a fraction.

“A foundling,” he says, almost wistfully. “Well, she came to a good place.”

Sam leans forward to look into the pod again, and as if the child somehow senses her presence, he opens his eyes and looks sleepily back at her. His _eyes_. They’re huge and black, like a forest tarn – calm and treacherously deep.

“Hey there,” she says quietly.

“Kid, this is Sam,” says the Mandalorian, his voice immediately shifting, becoming stern and fatherly. “She’s a friend, and you’ll be staying with her for a little while. You’ll do as she says, okay? And I don’t want to hear about any funny business when I get back.”

The little creature sits up and makes a noise that falls somewhere between suspicious and disappointed.

“It’s only for a couple of days,” the Mandalorian goes on. “And she’s got another kid here. You can play together.”

The child turns back to Sam to look at her dubiously, before sinking back down in its little pod and closing its eyes. A thousand questions that Sam is burning to ask the Mandalorian crowd her brain, and she plucks one from the top of the pile.

“What does he eat?”

The Mandalorian sighs. “ _Everything_.”

* * *

Naturally, the child takes to Cricket like a Laa takes to a swamp pool, trailing after her on his short little legs as she goes about her morning chores. For the first couple of hours, Cricket feigns annoyance, pointedly rolling her eyes as the child puts an already washed and drying bowl back into the soapy dishwater, or sighing loudly when he runs in front of her feet on her way to stoke the fire. Soon enough, though, the chores are forgotten as the two engage in some intricate make-believe involving sorting Cricket’s sizable collection of glass beads into piles and trading them back and forth. The rules of the game seem unclear, but at least they’re keeping busy.

Sam makes the tea, even though that’s Cricket’s responsibility now, then goes into the med hut to take stock. She listens with half an ear to the children outside while she works, to Cricket’s incessant babbling and the wordless noises the little one responds with. Her initial misgivings seem unfounded, she reflects. He’s just a child, after all, and she feels almost silly thinking back to the unease she felt last night.

The silence is what makes her pause halfway through counting a stack of bluereed. She frowns, an odd sense of dread creeping along her spine. Then she drops the herbs back in the drawer and hurries to the door. She pushes it open and peers outside. Cricket and the child are still where she left them, but what Sam sees next takes her breath away; a narrow, impossibly high, tower of beads is swaying between them. It’s as tall as the child, and it looks like he’s the one keeping them in place, slowly moving his little hands back and forth through the air. Cricket takes another bead from a pile on the ground and carefully places it on top of the tower. It wobbles, but it stays.

Then Cricket seems to sense Sam looking at her and turns her head around. The child does the same, and with a crystalline rustle, the beads all crash to the ground and roll off in every possible direction.

“Ma!” Cricket yells excitedly. “Did you _see_ that?”

“I did,” says Sam, trying to keep her voice steady. She has to suppress the urge to run over there and sweep Cricket into her arms as if she were a baby that Sam needs to keep safe.

“It’s _magic_ ,” Cricket says while she picks beads from the ground, chasing the ones that are still rolling around with nimble hands. “He can do real magic!”

“Maybe so,” says Sam, her eyes trained on the strange child. 

He meets her gaze, and the quiet force that those dark eyes hold shakes her to the core.

* * *

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

It’s the evening of the second day, and the Mandalorian has returned as promised. Now they’re standing at the edge of the forest, watching Cricket boil bandages while the child follows her every move intently.

The Mandalorian shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it was necessary,” he says. “He usually only does it when there’s an emergency.”

“He scared me at first,” Sam says. “And still does, a little.”

She’d had trouble sleeping last night, waking again and again to check that the child was still asleep in its pod. She needn’t have worried; It barely moved an inch all night, seemingly exhausted after a day of following Cricket’s every move.

“He’s not _dangerous_ ,” says the Mandalorian. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Not to friends, at least.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He pays her well – more than well, the nature of her service considered. It’s not the place of a healer to question the size of the payment, so she doesn’t. It’ll keep her stores afloat for weeks to come, with a bit left to spare for herself. She suspects he knows this, and that thought sits like a hot lump of shame in her belly, even as she and Cricket wave goodbye to the odd couple. The pod floats backwards steadily by the Mandalorian’s side as he walks away, the child looking back at them, his huge eyes gleaming until they’re swallowed up by the darkness.

* * *

When Sam next meets the Mandalorian, he comes alone, and he’s badly injured.

She and Cricket hear the ship coming from miles away, and the landing it makes in a nearby clearing is rough, shaking the ground. 

“Ready a bed,” Sam says to Cricket before sprinting off towards the ship.

She reaches it just as the Mandalorian stumbles out from the cargo hold, and she rushes forward to sling his arm around her shoulder to support him.

“It’s fine,” he says and tries to shake himself loose.

“Is that so,” Sam says between clenched teeth as he slumps against her.

“I can walk,” he insists, after which his leg promptly gives in and he topples forward onto the ground, almost bringing Sam with him.

It takes a minute to get him upright again, and while they struggle together, Sam makes stray observations; the leg armor on his left shin is caked with crusted blood, but more worryingly, the thick cloth he wears around his neck seems disintegrated somehow, revealing what looks almost like burns.

“What happened?” she says as they start walking again, more carefully this time.

“Angry blurrg,” he grunts.

“A blurrg did that?” she says, staring at his neck.

“No, the...leg. This was a stone mite.” He gestures at his helmet.

“Stone mite?”

“It’s an...insect. Eats metal.”

This jogs an ancient memory, from the years when Sam was still an apprentice with Ma Eyla; a man getting a bite wound treated, his skin severely burnt from the saliva of some outlandish, droid-like bug.

“Acid?” she asks.

The Mandalorian makes an affirmative noise.

Sam shivers. Burns need to be tended to quickly to prevent scarring, and judging by the state of his leg, he’s been leaving it untreated for hours, maybe days.

“How long ago was this?” she asks.

“The stone mite? Not long. Couple of hours ago.” He stops for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. “It was in my bunk when I was going to bed, and I shot it at close range. It...exploded.”

“Were you wearing that?” she asks carefully, meaning the helmet.

“...No.”

In other words, it blew up in his face.

“Lucky you were in the area,” she mumbles.

When they reach the settlement, Cricket is standing by the fire, jumping nervously from foot to foot.

“What can I do, Ma?” she asks.

“Is the bed ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve done enough, girl. Keep the fire going, and make sure you knock if you want anything, understand?”

“Yes, Ma.”

She helps the Mandalorian inside and up on the cot that Cricket has prepared, then hurries over to the sink to wash her hands before inspecting his leg.

“This will heal just fine,” she says after carefully lifting the cloth to peek at the wounds. “But that’s not what’s worrying me right now. Am I correct in thinking the acid from that stone mite splashed onto your skin? Since you weren’t wearing your helmet.”

The Mandalorian makes no sign of having heard her, just lies there in stubborn silence.

“Well?” she asks.

More silence. 

“It needs to come off,” Sam says decisively.

“No,” he says, making to get off the bed. He makes the most restrained of whimpers as his leg protests, and then sinks back down in resignation. 

“But isn’t that why you came here?” Sam asks. “To me?”

The Mandalorian still says nothing, and Sam stays quiet, waiting him out. The seconds drag on, each more precious than then next, but then he finally lifts his hands towards the helmet, slowly, as if fighting against an unseen force.

“A moment, please,” says Sam. “I’m not ready.”

Quickly, she gathers up clean tools and other necessities, then hurries over to fetch a jellied sponge wrapped in honeyvine from the cooler. After a second’s hesitation, she grabs another one. They’re dearly bought, but so is time right now, and she doesn't want to go fumbling around once she’s started.

She washes her hands one last time and then returns to the Mandalorian. Sam picks up a blindfold from the table, and as she starts tying it, she says, “Now.”

It’s been too long since she last worked blindfolded, and she’s almost shocked by how her other senses heighten immediately, the smell of metal and blood and untended wounds pricking her nose. She can hear a slow, soft dragging noise and then comes a distinctive and loud clang as the helmet drops to the floor. 

“Alright,” comes an unfamiliar voice. His, of course, she realizes after a heartbeat’s hesitation.

Sam set to work right away, skimming her fingertips gently across his neck and chin, and up over his cheeks. _It’s not so bad_ , she thinks, or at least wishes. Her hands tremble slightly as she assesses the spread of the burn. The acid seems to have splashed up against the sides of his face, sparing his mouth, nose and eyes for the most part. The skin is already blistered and smooth, and she grabs a jug of water from the table.

“Hold still,” she says, and begins to carefully rinse the acidic residue off. 

His skin is slippery, almost oily to the touch, and it takes several refills of the jug before it feels clean again. She knows she’s done when the skin catches against her fingers.

“This is infused with dusk jelly,” she says as she unwraps the sponge. “It’ll feel very cold.”

“From..the fish?” he groans, then hisses - in pain or perhaps relief - as she sticks the wobbly pad against the right side of his neck and face and begins unwrapping the second packet.

“It’s technically not a fish… But yes.”

“Smells like fish. Smells _worse_ than fish.”

She can’t help but smile – a patient complaining about their treatment is usually a good sign. 

“There,” she says after the second sponge is in place. “I’ve done what I can for now. That needs to sit for an hour at the very least. Enough time for me to look at that leg of yours.”

There’s a pause while she gropes around on the table for the sturdy square of clean linen cloth she prepared.

“I’ll need my eyes for this part,” she says matter of factly.

“But…”

“Cover yourself with this,” she says, feeling around for his arm and then handing him the cloth.

There is another long pause, and another reluctant "Alright", and she removes the blindfold.

Instinctively, her eyes are drawn to his face, well covered beneath the cloth. It's folded double and thick enough not to reveal even the slightest of his features. She knows more about what he looks like from tending to his wounds than from what she can see now.

She shudders a little. This is a sight usually reserved for those few dreadful days when she has lost a patient. If it weren't for the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest, he would seem altogether dead. 

Then she fetches her scissors, swiftly starts cutting open his pants, and gets busy tending to his leg.

"It's done," she says after what feels like an age.

The wound on his left shin is cleaned, sewn and dressed, and numerous smaller cuts and bruises have been seen to. Sam can feel her curls sticking to her forehead, her apron is stained with blood, and her back is cold with drying sweat.

"Can I put it back on?" asks the Mandalorian, his voice muffled beneath the cloth.

He doesn't say what, but she knows.

"No," she says. "I need to dress the burns as well. But I need air first."

With that, she wipes her hands clean and walks out of the med hut and into the cool night. Cricket is squatting by the fireplace, poking at the glowing embers with a stick. 

“How’d it go?” she says, getting to her feet nimbly when she hears Sam coming out.

“As well as it could,” says Sam, closing her eyes and inhaling the fresh, crisp air in slow, deep breaths. “Don’t go in there,” she adds.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Not now you weren’t.” says Sam, opening her eyes again to look at the child. “But you don’t _ever_ go in there. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma,” Cricket mumbles before returning to the fire.

“Put the kettle on, will you?” Sam says in a softer voice. “I’ll be done soon.”

Back inside the med hut, she prepares the table once more, this time with a bowl of thick, creamy salve and strips of bandage.

“What now?” says the Mandalorian. His voice has a pleasant timbre. Deep, but smooth.

“Hopefully the blisters will have stopped swelling, so now we have to keep your skin from drying out and scarring,” she says evenly while once again putting her blindfold on. “I’ll remove your cover now,” she warns.

“Wait,” he says, and his arm, suddenly flung up, collides with hers as she reaches down. She stops, waits. “Have you…”

Instead of replying, she takes his hand and guides it to her face, lets him run his fingers over the cloth, lets him feel how snugly it fits. She can feel his arm relaxing. Then she reaches down again.

“It’ll be a while before you can wear the helmet again,” she says as she removes the jellied sponges and wipes his face clean.

He hisses, even though her touch is feather light. “How long?” he grunts.

“You won’t like the answer.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two _weeks_? Not possible.”

Sam feels around on the table for a free spot and then drops the soaked rag she’s holding. 

“One week to make sure your skin doesn’t slide off your face,” she says calmly. “Another to minimize the scarring. And then we’ll see. These are no ordinary wounds, Mandalorian. The acid eats into the skin, and the salve needs to be applied regularly until the process stops.”

Some word slips him – probably a curse – in a language she’s not familiar with.

“Mm,” she says noncommittally. She’s not sure how she feels about this either; business is always slow these days, but he’ll be occupying the med hut for the foreseeable future. But as he has his way, she has hers. 

* * *

Normally Cricket is the one bringing food to the patients, but Sam doesn’t trust her. Doesn’t trust her not to drop the tray while blindfolded, doesn’t trust her not to look if she’s not wearing one. Not because Cricket would do any such thing maliciously, but because she is a child, and Sam remembers being one herself all too well. 

They quickly establish a routine, Sam and the Mandalorian. She knocks, waits for him to cover himself and call out for her, and then enters. She puts his food down, checks his leg and then puts the blindfold on to check and redress the burns on his neck and face. They exchange a word or two while she works, and then she leaves him. Once a day she leaves a bowl of hot water for him to wash himself in private. She thanks the moons he’s able to take some care of himself; not that she would have minded, but she knows he would have.

On the fifth day, just as she's putting the finishing touches on his bandages, he grabs hold of her arm very gently. She pauses, waiting for him to speak.

"Sam…" he says quietly. "Thank you."

She can feel his fingers sliding down past her wrist until he's holding her hand. His grip is soft but firm and warm. Out of instinct, she squeezes back, and they stay like that for a while.

"You're welcome," she says, and her voice is a little more unsteady than she would have liked.

"I’m grateful for your help. For your...friendship.”

 _I took an oath_ , she wants to say. And at the same time she wants to say, _me too_. Instead she silently squeezes his hand again, before collecting her things and shuffling blindly towards the door.

* * *

She has trouble sleeping that night. Something about his touch haunts her, awakens something in her that she thought she’d left behind. 

In the past she has enjoyed connections - most of them fleeting - with men, and women too. Such things had developed naturally, at times even with patients. No code of honor or oath forbade it, and it changed nothing about either treatment or payment. Healing was work, sex was pleasure. But it’s been a long time, years even, since she shared her bed with anyone. 

Sam turns on her side and stares unseeing into the darkness. The feeling of his hand on hers seems to linger on her skin, like a faint burn. She mustn’t allow herself to think about him like that, she tells herself. He’s a Mandalorian, for one. In truth she doesn’t know how, or even if, they take their pleasure. To initiate something is unthinkable, and yet she spends the best part of the night thinking about it.

* * *

He is healing well; better than she had ever dared hope, and on the eighth day, she tells him so. Beneath Sam’s fingers, his face tenses slightly in what can only be a faint smile.

“Good,” he says. “How long until…”

“I don’t know,” she interrupts him as she rubs the salve on his cheeks. “Ask me again in a couple of days.”

“A couple of days,” he murmurs.

Now it’s Sam’s time to smile. “Patience, Mandalorian,” she says.

Even though it’s not strictly necessary, she smears a thin layer of ointment on the unburnt parts of his face, letting her hands wander over his brow and the curve of his nose. She tries to piece the clues together, to imagine his features, but every time a clear picture starts forming it slips from her mind as easily as rain through outstretched hands. 

* * *

That evening, he doesn’t answer when she knocks. After another attempt, and impatiently waiting for a reply, she steps inside. She keeps her eyes trained on the ground and calls out:

“Mandalorian?”

There is no reply, and she carefully lifts her gaze. The bed is empty, and now her heart begins beating hard.

“Hello?” she tries, a little louder.

She puts the tray down in its usual place by the bed and scans the room, half afraid she’ll actually see him, see his face. When she turns back to the bed, she can hear the back door creaking open behind her.

“Go away, Cricket!” she snaps.

“Cover your eyes.”

It’s the Mandalorian, and Sam squeezes her eyes shut as she fumbles for the blindfold. Her heart is still racing, her hands trembling from...she doesn’t even know what from.

“Where were you?” she asks, tying the cloth behind her head angrily.

“I needed fresh air,” he says simply. “To stretch my legs. There was no one around.”

She draws a breath, ready to give him an earful, but something about the way she can hear him dragging his foot is wrong.

“You’re limping,” she says.

“With this leg, what did you expect?”

“Your _other_ leg,” she says pointedly. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s nothing,” says the Mandalorian. 

She can hear him shifting onto the bed. “Alright”.

Sam rips the blindfold off and strides over to the bed. Without further ado, she unties the laces on his rough canvas pants and yanks them down. On his right thigh is an angry welt. It’s a thin cut - one she cleaned that first night but didn’t think much of, she remembers. It’s healed badly. She grows cold, then hot with anger. With herself, but she takes it out on him.

“How long has it been like this?” she scolds.

“A couple of days,” says the Mandalorian, his shoulders shifting in a little shrug. “It’s getting better.”

“It most certainly _isn’t,_ ” says Sam and walks over to her cabinet and begins crushing herbs in a mortar. _Stupid, blind woman_ , she thinks to herself. It's not like her to let something like this slip past her.

She treats him in stubborn silence, ignoring his groans and hisses as she drains the wound before smearing sunblood paste over it. It’s only when she’s wrapping a tight bandage around his thigh that she notices it - the vague bulge in his underwear. Her eyes flit up to his face, as always covered. Then she glances down again, her treacherous, treacherous heart speeding up. It might be nothing. It’s difficult to tell, but it most certainly _seems_ like…

“What’s wrong?” the Mandalorian asks.

Sam snaps out of her reverie, and quickly finishes fastening the bandage. “Nothing,” she says, then tugs at his pants. “Pull these up and let’s have a look at those burns, shall we?”

“A feel, I should hope,” he says, and the last thing she sees before picking up the blindfold is his hands, tying the laces of his pants again.

“Yes, yes,” says Sam, covering her eyes once more. “A slip of the tongue.”

The whole time she tends to his burns, she’s distracted. Her fingers can't seem to find their way anymore; she fumbles with the bandages, and she knocks a jug of water to the floor with a crash. She curses between clenched teeth, and the Mandalorian says nothing. When she’s finally done, she takes a deep breath and shakes her hair back. 

She thinks about his underwear.

“This wound,” she says, her hands patting his side and finding their way to his thigh. “Was it from the blurrg?”

“Not exactly. It threw me into some thorny bush.”

Sam lets her hands linger as she feigns contemplation. It doesn’t matter where the gash came from; it’s cleaned and dressed and will heal. And yet she lingers. When she finally moves, she lets her arm brush ever so lightly over his hip, and-

She freezes, pulls her hand away. It's unmistakable this time. He's unmistakably...firm. For a moment, a battle of wills rages in Sam’s chest. Surely this must mean something. But should she act on it? She lowers her hand slowly, biting her lip.

“Sam.”

She flinches. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” she says, her stomach plummeting as the shameful realization that he’s been watching her this whole time hits her. She curls her fingers into a fist and pulls it towards her chest, her cheeks suddenly aflame. “I’m sorry. I’ll go now,” she says, making to leave.

“No," he hurries to say. "I should be the one apologising.”

She turns back and draws herself up, gathering her last scraps of dignity. “It’s fine. You're a man. It happens. Sometimes for no particular reason." _Mother_ , _she's rambling._

He says nothing, does nothing for a long while, and in the silence her breathing comes unnaturally loud. Then she feels his hand on her arm, warm fingers encircling it, his thumb gently sweeping over the smooth inside of her elbow. Wearing the blindfold has suddenly never felt more restricting. Any move she makes will be in the dark, and the sole light guiding her way is his soft but insistent touch on her arm.

But, she thinks, if this is not a sign, then what is? 

She lets her other hand wander back to his hip and up until she feels him, hard through the rough cloth. He still says nothing, but his grip on her arm tightens a little. 

She traces the outline of his cock and then palms him gently. He twitches against her hand, sending a jolt of lust through her arm. Her whole body reacts; her thighs prickle, her heart races in her chest, and she just about manages to stop her mouth from dropping open. It’s been long since she felt a need this sudden, and yet…

 _He is badly hurt, in no shape for anything of the kind,_ she thinks fleetingly as she sweeps her fingers over him. The Mandalorian squeezes her arm again and grunts, and her breath catches in her throat.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she says.

“You’re not,” he says in a strangled voice.

Feeling him, how hard he is, and hearing his ragged breath - it drives her to distraction. She knows she should probably stop this right here and now, but she simply cannot resist it. She strokes him through the layers of fabric, listening to his breathing, paying attention to his restrained squirming to learn what he likes. Something she does, some small touch, makes him whimper, and she does it over and over until he suddenly comes with a drawn out groan, his cock throbbing faintly under her hand.

In the dense silence that follows she can practically hear her own arousal, pounding between her legs. She wants nothing more than to have him do the same to her, to bend down and taste his lips, to untie her blindfold and...She feels his hand drop away from her arm and a sudden surge of insecurity washes over her. 

For a split second, she can see the boy by the fire in her mind, as clearly as though it were yesterday, scolding his elder. _Never in front of another_. 

“Thank you,” says the Mandalorian, the sound of his voice startling Sam.

“My pleasure,” she replies distractedly, even though her own satisfaction is still very much lacking.

She leaves the med hut in a daze, her legs moving by muscle memory alone. Outside, the fire is dying down and Cricket is nowhere to be seen. Sam kicks some dirt over the smoldering embers before hurrying inside her own quarters. She doesn’t bother getting undressed, but simply climbs up on the bed and rubs herself to relief in a matter of minutes.

* * *

In the days that follow, neither Sam nor the Mandalorian mention what happened. At first, she waits for him to say something, and when he doesn’t, she doesn’t know how to bring it up. Perhaps he regrets it. Or perhaps he thinks it’s something all healers do to men – he wouldn’t be the first. She spends a whole day working herself into a temper about that last notion, imagining herself explaining sternly to him that she is no simple prostitute. But he remains courteous, giving her no cause to suspect he thinks any less of her now.

After a while she almost starts to question her own memory. Was it all a strange dream? If it was, it was certainly a vivid one, and it makes her hands tremble when she applies salve to his burns, not to mention how it keeps her up at night. The day when it’s time for him to leave can’t come soon enough, she thinks as she slips her hand inside her underwear yet again.

But when that day does come, it inevitably feels much too soon.

It’s the twelfth day since he arrived, and after seeing the wound on his leg healed up and in no need of further attention, Sam ties her blindfold for what she already knows is the last time. She sweeps her fingers over his face, searching every inch for signs of scarring or blisters. It's all healing well, his skin smooth and supple again, apart from the coarse beard that's starting to grow back.

"It's done," she says finally.

"All of it?"

"All of it." Sam smiles and then adds, "You can put it back on now. The helmet."

He doesn't reply, but grabs her hand and holds it in both of his. Then he pulls it to his face, and for a second she doesn't understand what he's doing, until she feels a softness against her knuckles, and then the gentle tickle of bristly hair as he presses his lips to her hand.

“What do I owe you?” he asks.

 _Nothing_ , she wants to say, but that’s not how it works. “What do you think it’s worth?” she says instead.

He’s still holding her hand in his, and now he runs a thumb absentmindedly over her fingers. If he only knew how weak it makes her. She wishes he would kiss them again, wishes she could see him, to know what he’s thinking. On a whim, Sam raises her free hand to his face and trails a finger along his bottom lip, and with every second her heart pounds harder.

“Have you ever kissed anyone, Mandalorian?” she asks quietly.

He doesn’t reply immediately, but she can hear the breath he draws in hesitation.

“I haven’t,” he says at length.

She bends down, slowly but deliberately. Cupping his chin in her trembling hand she lets her lips meet his. At first he’s unresponsive, his mouth soft but still. _This was a mistake_ , Sam thinks, her heart sinking. But just as she’s about to pull away, he tilts his chin up to chase the kiss. He lets her hand go and moments later she can feel his fingers against her temple, carefully threading through her hair. 

The fire he lights in her is unholy, blazing a trail of lust right through her chest. There’s a whimper from somewhere, and Sam realizes it’s coming from her throat. She catches his lip between hers, lets her tongue brush against it ever so fleetingly, and now he’s the one making noises.

And suddenly he’s gone, pulling his face away, leaving Sam to stumble forward into the void he left behind. She can hear him getting up off the bed.

“I can’t,” he says. “This can’t happen.”

Sam stands up straight, hot waves of humiliation washing over her.

“Of course,” she says, and she hates the way her voice is close to breaking. “My apologies.”

And with that, she spins around, rips off her blindfold and flees.

Outside, the sun is close to setting, and Sam half-runs into the golden light, following that brightness blindly for several minutes until she reaches the sea. The sand is still warm, and she knows that the water is warmer still, the summer currents caressing the shoreline for miles this time of year. She unties the laces of her dress and lets it pool around her ankles before stepping out of her underwear and into the sea.

She floats easily in the salty water, and she lets the current carry her several hundred yards along the coast before she gets out again. By the time she makes it back to her clothes, her skin has dried in the warm breeze and the stars are coming out, appearing one by one in the dark blue sky.

Back at the settlement, Cricket has the fire going, the kettle whistling just as Sam arrives.

“Did you go for a swim, Ma?” she asks.

“I did. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, Ma. It’s nearly done.”

With that, she disappears into her hut, presumably to finish dinner. Sam fetches a towel from her own hut, then sits down by the fire to dry her hair. A moment later, the Mandalorian steps outside, for the first time since he arrived in full armor again. He nods silently at her by way of greeting before sitting down opposite her. Sam squeezes her curls slowly with the towel and nods back.

The armor is, quite frankly, a relief. She can almost imagine that this is not the same man she’s treated for the past halfmoon. 

"The sea," he says. "Is it safe to swim in? I could use a bath."

The modulator helps, too.

"For another hour or two," she replies. "Before the tide turns."

Just then, Cricket bursts out of her hut, balancing two steaming bowls in her hands. At the sight of the Mandalorian she freezes, glancing uncertainly at Sam and then turning back to him.

“Good evening, master,” she says politely, dipping in a quick curtsey. “I’ll fetch another bowl.”

“No need,” he says. “I’ll eat later.”

“Of course, master,” says Cricket before handing Sam her food and sitting down.

They begin eating in silence, Cricket’s eyes roaming every inch of the Mandalorian; she’s positively buzzing with curiosity, and Sam can’t help but smile at how much her young self she’s like.

“I recognize this youngling,” says the Mandalorian, looking at Cricket. Before Sam can answer, he continues in a mock whisper, “How rude of Ma Sam that she never introduced us, don’t you think?”

Cricket’s eyes go wide, a mix of glee and hesitation playing across her face. She looks at Sam, who nods, before replying.

“I’m Cricket, master. I’m Ma Sam’s apprentice. One day I’ll be a healer like her.”

“That’s good,” says the Mandalorian. “The world needs more skilled healers like your Ma.”

“Where’s the little one? Did you name him yet?”

“He’s in a safe place. And no, I didn’t. I’m sure he misses you though.”

Cricket beams. “What’s _your_ name?” she asks then.

“Cricket!” Sam snaps. “I’m sorry, she doesn’t know–”

“It’s fine,” the Mandalorian interrupts her. “Din Djarin, at your service,” he says to Cricket. 

Sam’s eyes go wide, and she almost lets a gasp slip her. After all these years of her not knowing, he gives his name to _Cricket_ as though it’s nothing.

“Din Djarin,” Sam whispers to herself - much too quietly for him to hear, but he turns to her all the same, tilting his helmet in a silent question.

“I have some work to do,” Sam says, getting to her feet to avoid meeting that quiet gaze. “I’ll be in my hut if you need anything.”

* * *

Later that evening, she goes over her books. She’s running dangerously low on supplies, and lower still on cash. She flips the ledger shut with a sigh. At least she’ll have something coming in from the Mandalorian - Din Djarin - soon. _Din Djarin_. She turns it over in her mind, wondering what kind of face goes with such a name. And then, as if answering to that thought, there’s a knock on the door that's clearly not Cricket.

“Come in,” she calls over her shoulder, pushing the book away and getting to her feet.

The sight of him in full armor again is still somewhat strange to her; she’s grown accustomed to seeing the man underneath. He steps inside and closes the door carefully, then takes out a small metal box.

“Maybe these will do,” he says. “As payment.”

Sam takes the box, looking at it curiously. “What is it?”

The Mandalorian doesn’t reply, so she opens it. Inside are two green gemstones that spread a strange, luminescent light in the dim hut. The sight of them makes her stomach drop.

“Nova crystals,” she whispers under her breath. “These are invaluable!”

“No. Just valuable.”

Sam shakes her head. “That’s an understatement. I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

The Mandalorian tilts his head. “I didn’t think that was up to you to decide.”

And it isn’t. Sam chews her lip, and then nods. “Alright,” she says finally. “Thank you. Din Djarin.”

He tenses a little when she says it, she can tell.

“Your name…” she begins, looking up at his visor where she imagines his eyes are.

“I kept it secret for a long time,” he says. “But then someone found out, and now the Loth-cat’s out of the bag.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He seems lost in thought for a moment. “Things are changing. For better or worse.”

They fall silent, and Sam suddenly notices how close they’re standing; close enough that she can smell the sea on him, smell his damp hair under the helmet. She feels exposed, afraid that her face will betray her, or worse, her body. He, on the other hand, is enclosed in his armor. It’s impossible to guess his thoughts, his feelings. Something moves at the edge of her vision, and she looks down to see his hand half-lifted. Then he drops it again.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” he says.

Sam doesn’t trust her voice, so she simply nods. 

“Good night, Sam.”

“Good night.”

* * *

The night is warm, and even in just her underclothes and a short nightdress, it’s too hot to get under the covers. Instead she lies back on top of them, her hand inevitably seeking out the needy heat between her legs. She thinks back to Cantonica, to when he pulled her close and they soared through the air, to when he treated his leg and found him hard...But then the memory of their interrupted kiss hits her, still fresh and raw with shame, and she tears her hand away. 

In the end she falls into restless sleep, unsatisfied and aching.

* * *

She wakes with a gasp from the feeling of a hand clasped firmly across her eyes. With a yelp, she tries to scramble down off the bed, but her limbs are clumsy and heavy with sleep.

“Shh, shh, it’s me.”

It’s him, Din Djarin, and it’s clear from his voice that he’s not wearing his helmet. Sam forces herself to relax, to slowly shift until she’s sitting on the bed, her legs dangling off the side and with his hand still covering her eyes.

“What’s going on?” she asks. When he doesn’t reply, she nervously adds, “...Din?”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead he leans in and crushes his lips against hers. It’s a desperate, unpracticed kiss, but she gives herself to it willingly and without hesitation. They clash again and again, her experience and his instinct making the kisses grow hot and open-mouthed until he tears himself away, breathing hard. For a second she thinks he’s going to leave her like that again, but then he presses something into her hand. It’s a blindfold.

“Cover your eyes,” he says. “Please.”

She keeps her eyes closed and ties it quickly, and yet she’s barely finished tightening the knot before he tangles his fingers in her hair and assaults her lips again. Depraved of her sight, Sam starts exploring him with her hands, lets them roam his back and his broad shoulders before she finds the warm skin of his neck beneath the collar of his shirt, finds the unruly hair she’s brushed against once or twice and since then dreamed of twisting around her fingers. She does it now, and is rewarded with a low groan. Sam smiles against his lips, and then slides one hand down around to his chest and further…

“Wait,” says Din, taking her hand in his.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. But I think it's my turn to…"

He trails off and puts his hands on her thighs, not ungently but firmly enough to make it perfectly clear what he’s after. Sam is only too happy to oblige, shimmying her nightdress up and parting her knees to let him come closer, and when he puts his hand on her it sends shocks of lust through her, making her legs tense up in anticipation. After all of her efforts trying to suppress it, Din could have lit the smoldering fire in her belly with a simple word – now she feels ready to combust.

There’s little finesse in how he works her, running his fingers roughly over her underwear. Perhaps he has only the vaguest idea of how to please a woman, but just being touched by him at all after days – maybe years, if she's honest with herself – of yearning is almost enough for her to come apart right there and then. Almost.

“Sit down,” she says breathlessly.

“Why?” he asks, his hand growing still.

“Because I need you to.”

He lets out a short breath, almost as if he’s annoyed, or perhaps impatient, and Sam wishes for the hundredth time that she could see his face. But he does what he’s asked; he pulls his hand away, and a second later she can feel the mattress sagging to her left as he sits down beside her. She grabs his shoulder and swings her leg across his lap to straddle him.

“Yes,” she sighs when she feels him, feels his hard cock even through the layers of cloth separating them.

Rocking against him feels divine, and he matches her pace, jerking his hips up as she grinds down. His hands have wandered down to cup her behind, and she grabs one of them and places it on her chest. He squeezes her experimentally through the thin fabric, and when her nipple tightens under his fingers he curses under his breath.

She’s close now, her arousal soaking her underwear to the point where it grates against him in the most delicious way. And yet she wants more. 

“Touch me again,” she says.

He lets her breast go and slips his hand down between them. Quickly, Sam pulls her underwear aside and moments later, she feels him there, exploring her cautiously. She guides his hand, helping him push two fingers inside her. 

_Stars_ , she's wet.

As she sinks down on his hand, he drags his teeth down her neck and shoulder, making her nerve endings sing, but it's the noise he makes that tips her over the edge – his short, restrained moans, like he’s trying his very hardest not to lose control. That and the way he fills her up _just right_ , and the second her labia bumps against his knuckles, she comes. In wave after wave around his fingers, with words tumbling haphazardly from her lips - fragments of a prayer, curses, and his name, _Din_ , _Din_ , _Din_ , whispered into his ear.

As she comes down from her high, he holds her tight and unmoving, his deep, deliberate breaths interrupted now and again by the faint aftershocks of her orgasm. Then he pulls his hand away, drawing a whine from her at the sudden emptiness he leaves behind. In a haze, she feels herself rolled over by strong arms until she’s lying on her back on the bed, still out of breath and her pulse racing. With the blindfold snug across her eyes, she can’t tell what he’s doing, but there’s a rustle of cloth and after a few moments she feels his hands on her hips again, this time hooking his fingers in the lining of her underwear.

“Can I?” he asks.

“Yes,” she breathes, helping him push the garment down past her knees before unceremoniously kicking it off.

She feels his hands on her thighs again, and when he settles between them, she tilts her hips up to meet him, and… _Stars, Mother Moon and all that’s holy, he’s inside her._ He stays still for just a moment, breathing. When he finally starts moving, he doesn’t hold back, pushing into her over and over, setting off new tremors in her core until she suddenly comes again, gripping his shoulders hard and biting back a scream. Din mumbles something unintelligible, and then slams against her one last time before slumping forward and spilling inside her, his chest heaving against hers as he presses kiss after kiss to her lips, her cheeks, her neck.

* * *

Afterwards, they’re lying on her narrow bed, Din on his side and almost flush against her to fit. He’s trailing endless, slow patterns on her belly, hips and legs with his fingertips, as though he can’t get enough of her skin. He circles her bellybutton almost distractedly, then drums his fingers low on her stomach.

“Is there any risk…” he starts.

“No,” Sam interrupts him. “I’m a healer and a midwife, Din. There’ll be no children unless I want them.”

“Good,” he says, sounding relieved. “Not that you wouldn’t make a good mother,” he hastens to add. “You would. It’s just… I grew up without my father. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone else.”

Sam grew up an orphan too, as all apprentices do, but she keeps her tongue. It’s clear that for him, it still hurts. She seeks out his arm with her fingers and caresses it, steady and strong even when relaxed, and he hums contentedly.

“I can’t stay here,” he says at length. It almost sounds like he’s saying it to convince himself more than anything else.

“I know,” says Sam. She laughs softly. “Of course I know. Even if things...escalated.”

She can feel his chest jumping in a short, silent laugh too.

“You know, _this_ ,” he says, and then pauses to catch her lips in a languid kiss, “is actually a far greater sin than the other thing.”

That sparks an idea in her, and the more she thinks about it, the more enticing it seems.

“Did you wear your helmet?” she asks. “When you came here.”

“I did.”

“Put it on then.”

She doesn’t have to ask him twice. He rolls off the bed in one smooth movement, and then she can hear him rummaging around briefly.

“Alright,” he says, his voice now distorted and metallic.

Sam unties the blindfold slowly, savoring the moment, and then turns on her bedside lamp, flooding the hut with golden light. The sight of him makes her heart jump. The combination of a bare chest and that helmet has a certain...effect on her. Maybe it’s the way she can somehow tell he’s looking at her appreciatively, just by the way he slightly tilts his head. Or maybe it’s simply the broad chest, the strong arms, and the enticing slope of a line that begins at his hip and disappears into his underwear.

“Come back to bed,” she says.

And he does.

* * *

He gets up before the sun the next morning. He thinks she’s still sleeping, but he’s wrong. Sam’s not usually a light sleeper, but no matter how carefully he climbs out of bed, his intentions of quietly slipping out were ruined the moment his breathing turned shallow from waking, rousing her in turn. She keeps her eyes closed, face firmly turned to the wall, listening to him gather up his clothes. Moments later, she hears him stepping softly up to the bed. Then she feels a gentle pressure on her shoulder. 

It's a kiss, his lips lingering there, his breath hot on her skin.

It takes every ounce of self control in her to not stir, to not let her even breathing stutter. If she turns around now, she'll see him - all of him - in the grey pre-dawn light. She'd end his path as a Mandalorian with a single look at his face, the face she's spent hours, days, years imagining.

She wonders briefly why he's taking this risk.

Before she can finish that trail of thought, the moment has passed and she can hear him putting the helmet back on.

She waits until she hears the door close before she opens her eyes. 

A few minutes later, she steps outside, dressed for a day of beachcombing. Cricket is standing by the ashes of last night’s fire, looking to the distant clouds at the ship that rises steadily, catching the first rays of sun on its battered hull.

“Do you think he’ll be back?” Cricket asks.

“I don’t know,” Sam says - an answer that is painfully earnest.

“I liked him.”

“Come on,” says Sam, handing Cricket a basket. “The tide’s on its way out.”


End file.
